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A resigned sigh from Barnabo, the tap of a piece on the board, a shuffling of Count Peter’s feet, and the end came.

The great man sat back, laughed in his chaplain’s face, and turned a sharp and self-satisfied profile to Gaillard.

“So you are back, my Gascon. All our games have gone well, have they? See—I am about to steal his lady.”

Gaillard leant forward to watch.

“Since he is a priest, sire, you are saving him from great temptation.”

Peter of Savoy laughed, but for some reason Barnabo looked up at the Gascon sharply.

The game was lost and won, and Gaillard had told his news. Peter of Savoy had picked up the lute, and was twanging the strings complacently. Barnabo still pored over the chess-board as though to discover how and where he had been beaten. He was a clever artist in the conception of flattery, yet he was on the alert while Peter of Savoy and Gaillard talked.

“Quiet as lambs, to be sure. That will be good news for our friend here. You smoked Waleran out like a fox out of a hole. Excellent Gascon! Fire purifies, so thought the Greeks. There are the folk at Goldspur to be seized—unless they come in with halters round their necks.”